Chapter 20: A Bloody Warning
Leo jolted awake on the cold concrete floor of his west-side warehouse, boots scuffling against the weathered surface, its cracks marked by dark oil spots and faded smears of blood—remnants of Gia's violent raid a few days before, a specter that wouldn't fade. His breath came hard, chest heaving up and down, the fevered pull of the bond an open wound in his side. Air was thick, suffocating—diesel exhaust burned his throat, mingling with the acrid taste of rusted beams stretching towards the sky and the wet, salty scent of Puget Sound permeating through shattered windows. Glass panels, shattered and trembling, rattled against the pre-dawn wind like teeth chattering.
Sunlight streamed in—gray, dull—through broken glass, casting thin, trembling lines on cracked walls where brick was visible through flaking paint, glancing dull off a chain web that draped from rafters, their muted clinking a mournful rhythm in the quiet. Stacks of shattered crates against one wall, their wood twisted and salt-encrusted, across rows of metal tables cluttered with rusty equipment—twisted wrenches, a bent crowbar, coils of frayed rope—stacked helter-skelter under a dull, flickering light bulb that buzzed quietly, swaying in the breeze like a weak pulse. His leather jacket was slung over his shoulders—cold, stiff—its rich odor mixing with the damp rot of the warehouse, a tang of salt and seaweed from the wharves below, where water crashed against pilings with an endless, maddening crash.
There was a thick smell of diesel smoke, bitter and acrid, burning the back of his throat as he breathed. It mixed with the white coppery odor of stale blood, the reverberation of violence gone lingering in the air. The wind rustled against broken glass, shivering it like trembling bones, disturbing the dust that lay upon every forgotten surface. In the corner, an iron hook was suspended from a chain, swaying very slightly, its rusty surface dulled to a pale orange in the white morning light. The chill pressed through his skin, into his bones, but Leo remained still, watching the devastation in every direction he glanced, pulse racing with a hunger he could not describe.
His chest burned—damn wolf—damn bond—damn Marco—fever simmering, a restless heat twisting deep, clawing at his ribs. Ezra’s whisper from the dorm hours ago echoed in his skull—“You’ll burn alive”—damn him—words gnawing at his resolve. He flicked his Zippo—flame snapped bright—lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply to steady his trembling hands. The ember glowed red in the dim, a flicker against the gray dawn.
His phone was black next to him—5:47 a.m., March 06, 2025—time was a haze since tearing out of Ezra's studio, head spinning with mate—true mate?—damn it—whose pull was real?
A smell hit him—sharp, unmistakable—blood. Fresh. Raw.
Damn it.
His wolf snarled—claws raked his mind—alpha fire burned. He stood solid—boots thundering heavy on the concrete as his head snapped toward the door, hung open, wind shrieking through the gap. And there—
A severed wolf's head.
Gray fur wet with red, eyes dull and glassy, blood clotting thick and sticky on the concrete threshold, dripping slow like the last grains of sand in an hourglass.
Damn it.
Gia.
A message.
Serpents.
War.
Leo's body stiffened—knife overturned once—blade caught the faint morning light.
"Bastards," he snarled, voice grated, raw and jagged. Damn her. Head thrown back like a taunt. Vito's voice came back to him—"Gia's lost it, kid—watch yourself"—gruff, worn, a memory from days past. Damn him. Why'd it hurt now?
The warehouse was still but for the soft creak of chains, the unnatural rattle of waves beyond. Sunlight striped gray across the crates—tools glinted dully—air thick with rot and rust.
Damn it.
War.
Serpents.
Gia.
Relentless.
Dead.
Him.
Damn her. Why now? Why push so hard?
His phone buzzed—screen glowed—text from unknown number:
"Serpents claim west—yours dead."
Damn it.
Official.
War declared.
Leo marched—boots grinding, crunching on the dirt and rubble—smoke wisping in the air, a ghostly sigh before the oncoming violence.
"Fuck you, Gia," he growled, wolf rising, anger burning, fangs bared in his mind's eye.
His men—targets, too.
Gia's play.
Nick's voice slipped from memory—"Ours—soon" —hungry, yellow eyes glinting, words on the pier, a soft, suffocating promise.
Damn him.
Serpents—merciless—cutting deep.
Marco.
Damn it.
Despite everything—despite war—
He hesitated.
Knife twisted in his hand, turning once, twice.
Then—text sent:
"Gia—Serpents—war—your crew—watch it."
Damn him. Why'd he care?
Why still did the bond pull so fierce?
He exhaled, the warehouse cooling despite the fire in his veins. The concrete was more scarred beneath his feet, the weight heavier than before.
Damn it.
Bond.
Marco.
Ezra.
Whose mate?
Whose war?
Whose blood next?
Phone buzzed again, vibrating on the floor, knocking against old stains and dry smudges.
Screen lit up.
Marco.
Leo breathed in, smoke burning hot down his throat.
Text was brief:
"Let them come."
Damn him.
Whose war?
Whose ending?